open the door, and Cromwell the bandit strode across the marble floor of the bank’s lobby, past the beautifully carved desks of the managers and the tellers’ windows and the counters without bars, totally open to the customers. The open tellers’ area was a strange innovation by a man who trusted no one and robbed out-of-state banks to build his own financial empire.
The fact was, Jacob Cromwell no longer needed the additional income he stole for his bank. But he was intoxicated by the challenge. He felt he was invincible. He could match wits with any police investigators, not to mention the agents from the Van Dorn Detective Agency, until he died of old age. He knew from his spies that no one was remotely close to identifying him.
Cromwell entered an elevator and rode up to the third floor. He stepped out onto the Italian-tiled floor of the main office on the gallery above the bank’s lobby. He walked into the grandeur of his suite of offices, the deep, ivory brown carpet muffling his footsteps. The walls were paneled in teak, with carvings depicting scenes of the nineteenth-century West, while the columns that supported the roof were sculpted in the manner of totem poles. The vast ceiling above had been painted with murals of the early days of San Francisco.
He employed three secretaries to handle his main business, along with much of his personal affairs. They were all beautiful women, tall, graceful, intelligent, and came from fine San Francisco families. He paid them more than they could make working for his competitors. The only requirement was that they all wear the same style and color dress, which the bank paid for. Every day was a different color. Today, they were wearing brown dresses that complemented the carpet.
They saw him enter and immediately came to their feet and surrounded him, chatting gaily and welcoming him back from what they had been told was a holiday that took him fishing in Oregon. Although he had to use great restraint and willpower, Cromwell never carried on a love affair with any of the three women. He had strong principles about playing on his own turf.
After the niceties were over and the ladies returned to their desks, Cromwell asked his senior secretary, who had been with him for nine years, to come into his office.
He sat down at his massive teak desk and parked the suitcase underneath. He smiled at Marion Morgan. “How are you, Miss Morgan? Any new gentlemen friends lately?”
She blushed. “No, Mr. Cromwell. I spend my nights staying home and reading.”
Marion was twenty-one when she finished college and came to work for Cromwell as a teller, and she had risen to manager. She had just turned thirty and had never married, which made many consider her an old maid. But the truth was, she could have had any one of the well-heeled men in town. She was an unusually ravishing and nubile lady who could pick and choose her suitors but had yet to select one for a husband. She was particular about men, and the Prince Charming of her dreams had not appeared. Her straw-blond hair was wrapped on her head, as was the fashion of the day, and her lovely facial features enhanced a long swan neck. Her corseted figure looked like the classic hourglass. She gazed across the desk at Cromwell through coral–sea green eyes, and a delicately shaped hand held a pencil poised above a notepad.
“I expect agents representing a bank in Salt Lake City to arrive at any moment to check our records.”
“Are they going to examine our books?” she asked as if mildly alarmed.
He shook his head. “Nothing like that. I’ve heard rumors among my fellow bankers that a bank in Salt Lake City was robbed and that monies stolen might have been deposited in another bank.”
“Do you wish me to take care of the matter?”
“No. Please, simply entertain them until I’m prepared to deal with it.”
If Marion had any inquiries as to the uncertainty about Cromwell’s request, she showed no curiosity. “Yes, of course, I’ll see that they are comfortable until you wish to see them.”
“That will be all,” said Cromwell. “Thank you.”
As soon as Marion left his office and shut the door, Cromwell reached into his breast pocket and brought out the bank draft from the Salt Lake Bank & Trust. Then he stood and went over to the large stand-up safe that held the bank’s ledgers and records. He quickly, and expertly, doctored the books so that it appeared that the draft had already been received and the full amount paid to Eliah Ruskin. Cromwell also made entries that indicated the money had been deducted from his bank’s liquid capital.
Cromwell did not have long to wait after finishing doctoring the records. The expected agents walked into his outer office twenty minutes later. Marion had stalled them, saying Mr. Cromwell was extremely busy. When a small buzzer beneath her desk sounded, she showed them into his office.
He was holding a telephone and nodded a greeting while motioning them to take chairs. “Yes, Mr. Abernathy, I will personally see that your account is closed and the funds transferred to the Bank of Baton Rouge in Louisiana. Not at all. Glad to be of service. Have a good trip. Good-bye.”
Cromwell put down the phone with a dead line and no caller on the other end. He stood, came around the desk, and offered his hand. “Hello, I’m Jacob Cromwell, president of the bank.”
“These gentlemen are from Salt Lake City,” said Marion. “They wish to see you about a draft drawn against their bank.” Then she swirled her skirt, a bare inch above the ankles, left the office, and closed the door.
“How can I help you?” Cromwell asked courteously.
One man was tall and gangly, the other short and stocky and sweating. The tall one spoke first. “I’m William Bigalow, and my associate here is Joseph Farnum. We are inquiring if any financial institution in San Francisco might have received a bank draft for four hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars drawn on the Salt Lake Bank and Trust.”
Cromwell raised his eyebrows in mock apprehension. “What seems to be the problem?”
“The draft was made under duress by the bank manager before a bandit shot him dead and made off with it, including the bank’s money in its vault. We’re trying to trace its whereabouts.”
“Oh, my,” said Cromwell, throwing up his hands in a sign of distress. “That draft came into our hands yesterday afternoon.”
The two agents tensed. “You have the draft?” Farnum queried expectantly.
“Yes, it is in a safe in our bookkeeping department.” Cromwell’s tone became grave. “Unfortunately, we honored it.”
“You honored it!” Bigalow gasped.
Cromwell shrugged. “Why, yes.”
“With a check, no doubt,” said Farnum, in hope there was still time to stop the bandit from cashing it at another bank.
“No, the gentleman whose name was on the draft asked for cash and we complied.”
Bigalow and Farnum looked at Cromwell in shock. “You paid almost half a million dollars in cash to someone who walked into your bank off the street?” Bigalow frowned severely.
“I checked the draft myself when my manager brought it to me for approval. It appeared perfectly legitimate.”
Bigalow did not look happy. It would be his burden to contact the directors of the Salt Lake Bank and tell them their four hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars had vanished.
“What was the name on the draft?”
“A Mr. Eliah Ruskin,” answered Cromwell. “He produced a file of papers that showed Mr. Ruskin was the founder of an insurance company that was going to pay off claims brought on by a fire that destroyed a city block in a town…” Cromwell paused. “I believe he said its name was Bellingham, in Washington State.”
“Can you describe Ruskin?” asked Farnum.
“Very well dressed,” offered Cromwell. “Tall, with blond hair and a large blond mustache. I didn’t catch the color of his eyes. But I seem to recall that he carried an unusual cane, with a silver eagle’s head.”
“That’s Ruskin, all right,” muttered Farnum.
“He didn’t waste any time,” Bigalow said to his partner. “He must have caught an express train to get here in a little over a day.”
Farnum stared at Cromwell skeptically. “Didn’t you think that was an astronomical amount to pay a perfect
